


Cat Burglar Spotted In Midtown Manhattan

by carloabay



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton as Merida, F/F, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Making Out, Morning After, Naked Cuddling, Nat's not rly the cuddling kind and neither is Sharon tbh, Undressing, drunk ladies, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27209941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carloabay/pseuds/carloabay
Summary: The cat yawns as if to say, 'You're useless, Sharon Carter.'
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Kudos: 14





	Cat Burglar Spotted In Midtown Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> This is way too late for Halloween lmao but enjoy x

"Happy Halloween," Natasha says. She's grinning, and it's all teeth, and Sharon tears her eyes away from the curve of Natasha's waist. The eye mask shifts with Natasha's smile.

"And you are?"

"A cat burglar," Natasha replies, making an overly disappointed face. Sharon dips her head into her drink and mutters something non-committal. She takes a long, long sip. This night would be easier if Natasha wasn't wearing a leotard and knee-high socks like some kind of sexy comic book character. Sharon knows that the amount of thigh on show is exactly what Natasha had in mind. 

She doesn't believe it's there for her.

But hey, a girl can dream.

"You're _excruciating_ ," Sam mutters in her ear when Natasha has melted back into the crowd, and Sharon digs her knuckle into his rib, and he grabs her left suspender and snaps it back against her shoulder.

"You're one to talk," she fires back. "I heard Maria's interns have a new name for you."

"Oh yeah?" Sam says, arm tensed. It's very large. He could easily put her in a headlock from this angle, but Sharon's not one to play nice.

"Uh-huh," she replies. "Steve's secret bird."

Sam pretends to think this over for a second. Sharon's just figuring she should have thought up a better joke, when Sam clears his throat and tips his drink all over her shoes.

∆

The shoes don't survive. She leaves the main room with her dignity barely intact, and Sam giving her a very smug look. She'll make sure he pays her handsomely.

Sharon's squelching back from the bathroom on the floor below, her ruined shoes tossed unceremoniously into the trash can in a random room, when something _meows_.

She stops in her tracks.

She turns a full circle, and sees nothing.

"Sharon!" Barton yells, from down the corridor. His curly red wig is somewhat askew, and there's an actual bow and arrow in his hands. Thor is beside him, dwarfing him and laughing uproariously with a mug the size of a barrel in his huge hand.

Sharon turns ninety degrees and escapes down a corridor.

She makes it to an elevator and hits the button with her palm, her drink slopping over her fingers, cold and sticky. Sharon curses and bends over to set it down and comes eye to eye with a cat.

A cat?

"Hello," she says, a little drunkenly. The cat stares her down. Sharon lets the glass hit the floor with a clink of ice, and the cat looks over interestedly. "Lost, are you?" Sharon asks, holding out her hand to let it sniff her. It's the drink-soaked hand, and the cat starts to lick, raspy and soft. Sharon snatches her hand away and totters backwards. Okay, more than a little drunkenly, then.

The elevator makes a high pitched noise and the doors slide open silently.

Sharon and the cat get on. The cat leaps up onto the handrail. Sharon leans back against the wall, blinking in an attempt to stop the world from spinning, but then the elevator starts to move, and almost floors her.

When did she get that drunk?

Sharon curses and clutches at the rail.

"Should I call for assistance, Miss Carter?" asks Jarvis politely. Sharon glares at the ceiling. It's a full minute before she realises she forgot to answer.

"No, thanks," she replies. The cat judges her from across the elevator.

The elevator slides to a stop, and Sharon is flicking droplets of alcohol from her wrist when the doors open again, and Natasha steps in. This isn't the right floor.

"Where are your shoes?" Natasha asks. There's a sour slur to her voice, muddling all her words, and Sharon takes a dizzy second to be glad she's not the only drunk.

"In the trash somewhere," she replies airily.

"You found the cat," Natasha says. There's an awkward silence.

"Your cat?" Sharon asks. There's a red hourglass dangling from the cat's collar. "Oh, God. Did you dress up as each other?"

"Not my cat," Natasha says quickly, all _too_ quickly. "But yeah."

"Couples costume," Sharon snorts, and Natasha grins, flighty and quick. The lights in the elevator gleam a little brighter.

Natasha tilts her head back against the wall like she's overwhelmingly grateful for something, and at the stretch of that jaw, Sharon actually _feels_ her heart implode.

Natasha lets her eyes fall closed and in that moment, Sharon's veins are suddenly full of that image, of the glint of teeth below Natasha's lip, of the thin skin over her throat. 

She is _fucked_. She's known for a while.

"You want to see the roof?" Natasha says, out of nowhere, lifting an eyelid, and Sharon has to look away like she hasn't just been admiring every inch of that glorious costume.

"Sounds romantic," Sharon teases, but even with the cloak of alcohol, the words stick on her tongue.

"Oh, it _is_ ," Natasha gushes, with a roll of her eyes. 

"I'll bet the view's better than a dozen drunk superheroes," Sharon says, pretending to mull it over, pretending like the invitation hadn't struck her like a kick to the jaw.

"Certainly better than Clint's asscheeks, which he's bound to be getting out some time soon," Natasha drawls, and Sharon chokes indelicately on her own tongue. The cat judges her harder.

"Offer accepted," Sharon manages, when her mouth is once again under her own control.

"Oh, good." Sharon would rather be sized up by a lion than have Natasha look at her like that; half-lidded eyes and a smile that could kill a man. "The roof, Jarvis."

"Very good, Miss Romanoff," Jarvis replies, agreeably. The elevator starts to move a little faster and Sharon starts to have a harder time pretending she isn't fuzzy-drunk. 

"The cat's coming with us?" she asks nonchalantly.

"The cat goes where she wants," Natasha says, making a face at the cat. Her nose wrinkles and it's cute as hell and Sharon has to look away again. The cat yawns as if to say, ' _you're useless, Sharon Carter._ '

The elevator draws to a stop and before Sharon can move, or even think about moving, Natasha latches her fingers around Sharon's wrist and drags her out onto the roof.

The first thought she has is that it's bitterly cold. The second is more along the garbled lines of the fact that Natasha is holding her, warm fingers, skin to skin, and Sharon thinks she starts to sweat.

"So what are you supposed to be, then?" Natasha asks, still towing Sharon carelessly behind her. 

"I'm Steve," Sharon replies. "Peg has a picture of him on her desk, from when he was all skinny. I figured I fitted that better than what he is now." 

"So that's what the suspenders are," Natasha muses. She flashes a smile over her shoulder, like a torch in the dark. Sharon tips her head back to breathe, and a far-off star winks at her. "They look better on you."

They reach the edge of the roof, up against a metal railing, and Sharon barely refrains from gasping in reverence. The city is fantastical, dancing with light and music and flashes of life. A car horn honks somewhere down below, and a curse drifts upwards on the wind. The pulsing beat from a few floors below seems to thrum in the bones of the tower.

"Looks good, right?" Sharon turns, and Natasha is grinning at her, the colours of the city shimmering in her eye.

"Gorgeous," Sharon breathes, and it's all she can do to keep her eyes on the city and not on Natasha's face.

Natasha lets go of Sharon's wrist. But within seconds, her hand is palm to palm with Sharon's, and Natasha wraps her fingers lazily around Sharon's hand.

"How drunk are you?" Natasha asks easily, like this is the most typical thing in the world, swaying on a glittering roof and holding hands in the dark. Sharon feels like a teenager all over again: she feels like intoxicated kisses and bitter voices and warm secrets. 

"Enough," Sharon replies. In the corner of her eye, Natasha is staring at her, a smile shunted to the side, a narrowed eye. Natasha tugs on her hand.

"You miss S.H.I.E.L.D?" It's so out of the blue that Sharon trips over herself answering.

"I--" she stares at Natasha. "Where did that come from?" Natasha shrugs loosely.

"I was going to tell you how much _I_ missed the good old days," she says.

"I didn't think you were one for nostalgia," Sharon says dryly. "How romantic."

"You keep saying that," Natasha breathes, and it's only then that Sharon has to realise how _goddamn_ close they are. Sharon lifts an eyebrow, and it's so hard to keep her composure, when Natasha's face is inches from hers and gleaming in the light of the city.

"Am I wrong?" The pause that follows seems to take forever. There's a moment within it, a moment of ' _Oh, god, I hope I'm not_ ', because this has been years coming, years of screened glances and Sharon's ridiculous crushing, but they're drifting together, slowly, eventually. 

Natasha waits until their noses are inches apart, until Sharon's face is flushed with heat, until her heart is in her throat, and _then_ Natasha pulls on her hand and Sharon stumbles into a kiss.

Natasha slides her other hand into Sharon's hair, Sharon licks into Natasha's mouth and now they're making out, Natasha's tugging on her hair and tilting Sharon's head back, and the railing is freezing through her shirt.

Sharon clutches at Natasha's hip, drowning in the kiss, in the heat of Natasha's mouth.

Natasha pulls away, and as the space swells between them, Sharon gasps for air. Natasha's fingers loosen in her hair.

"Wanted to do that for a while, now," Sharon mumbles dizzily, still practically panting into Natasha's mouth. Her toes are starting to freeze.

"Can't get home without your shoes, can you?" Natasha murmurs breathlessly. She leans in close again, and Sharon's vision fills with green and pink, and flushed skin.

"You could carry me home," Sharon replies, managing a smile. Natasha looks at her like she wants to eat her alive.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

They make it back to the elevator, tripping over each other's ankles, giggling into kisses, and Natasha shoves Sharon up against the wall and flicks open her top button.

Then Natasha's teeth are on her collarbone, her hand is on Sharon's ass, and her mouth is heaven. Sharon groans, heaving in ragged breaths, thumping her head back against the wall. Natasha pulls her shirt out from where it's tucked in, she rucks it up and splays her cold hand across Sharon's stomach, mouthing painfully at Sharon's neck.

"I don't think...this is the safest place...to get undressed," Sharon manages, in between gasps, because as much as she's in love with the way Natasha is kissing her skin, she can't stop thinking of a gaggle of drunken superheroes waiting for the elevator and finding, well...them, practically already shagging, when the doors open.

Natasha yanks Sharon's suspenders off and then the elevator draws to a stop and Natasha pulls back. 

Sharon knows her hair is a mess. She knows she's flushed and turned on and her neck is probably already bruising, but Natasha stares at her like she's just fallen from the sky.

"Something on my face?" Sharon breathes. The doors slide open, and Natasha grabs her hand and tugs her onto a darkened floor. Through the murk, Sharon can just about make out shapes of furniture, maybe a counter, maybe a couch. Natasha doesn't bother to turn the lights on.

They weave through the apartment, stumbling around cabinets and tables, and somehow, Natasha finds the bedroom. She kicks the door open and all but throws Sharon in, then slams the door closed and presses back against it.

Sharon waits, awkwardly rearranges her hair as Natasha stares her down with that heavy-lidded gaze.

Natasha starts towards her, backs Sharon up until her knees hit the bed and then Natasha's fingers are on the rest of her buttons and it's fast again, it's frantic and trembling and Sharon tips herself back onto the bed, taking Natasha with her.

Natasha arches over her, pushes her shirt off her shoulders, yanks it down under her arms, and Sharon surges upwards and plants her lips on Natasha's neck, her hands trapped on Natasha's hips, her shirt tangled around her elbows.

Natasha gasps into her ear. Her skin is hot and soft, and there's a scar running along her jugular, thin and raised. Sharon slides her tongue along it, fingers scrabbling over Natasha's waist to find where the damn costume ends.

"Should have worn tearaway pants," Sharon groans, and Natasha laughs breathlessly. Sharon reaches for the fabric over Natasha's shoulder, trying to push it away, and under her frustrated fingers, it rips, splitting down the side. Sharon pauses, detaching herself from Natasha's neck, and attempts to look meek as Natasha rolls her eyes.

" _Useless_ , Carter," she says, and she sits up on Sharon's hips, reaches for the ruined shoulder, and with a ripple of muscle, tears the entire costume to shreds.

"Excuse you," Sharon gulps. Natasha's skin is shining in the dark, and she's all lithe leg and muscle. Sharon runs a light, reverent hand over Natasha's thigh.

"You talk too much," Natasha complains.

"Duly noted," Sharon says, and Natasha's eyes glitter in the dark.

∆

A ray of autumn sunshine wakes her up the next morning. Sharon drags one eye open, a headache beating sharp fists against the inside of her skull, and she doesn't recognise the room.

Every muscle in her torso tenses almost immediately, and then her shoulder seizes up and she has to sink her teeth into her own lip to keep from grunting in pain. 

A bedroom she doesn't recognise, a night she doesn't remember, and no underwear doesn't usually bode well for a morning she's supposed to be working on.

Sharon turns her head, because there's a digital clock in her peripheral vision, but there's also a spray of red hair across the pillow next to her, and Sharon freezes again.

Ten to six. Sharon screws her eyes shut against the onslaught of light from that obscenely large window and starts a vain attempt to trawl up her memories from the might before.

Ruined shoes, a cat with a judgemental look in her eye, Clint Barton dressed as Merida...

...teeth on her collarbone in a moving elevator, her shirt halfway down her arms in a dark bedroom, green and pink, and flushed skin filling her vision, the frozen dark air of a city roof.

Of _course_ she had drunk sex with Natasha Romanoff. Of course, that would be her luck, to wake up hungover on a Friday morning, having fucked the Black Widow.

Not a bad night, if she was being honest. But it isn't looking up to be a _good day_ , particularly as there isn't exactly a handbook on how to go about the morning after sleeping with Natasha _fucking_ Romanoff.

Sharon dips her hand over the side of the bed, fingers brushing the floor, and she snags something linen, her shirt from her costume. Good enough. She drags it onto the rumpled comforter, barely even raising her head. She slides her arm into one sleeve and then she looks down and all the buttons are missing.

"You late for something?" Sharon stills, turning her head very slowly, and Natasha blinks sleepily at her from the other side of the bed.

"Work," she says, and dear _God_ her voice is sex-hoarse. Natasha grins, and Sharon clears her throat. 

Then Natasha moves, and in an instant, she's on top of Sharon, both of them tangled stupidly up in the comforter, Natasha's knee in her stomach and cold fingers on her sides and her mouth on Sharon's neck.

Sharon grunts gracelessly and wriggles, and then the two of them dissolve into laughter, Natasha panting hot air against Sharon's ear. The sun is catching Natasha's hair like it's made of amber, dazzling Sharon's eyes, and she's still laughing and she doesn't know why.

"Get off me," she wheezes, and Natasha giggles, _giggles_ , like a little kid. "I have to go to work," Sharon whines.

"So do I," Natasha replies, parroting Sharon's voice. "How shocked do you think Sam would look if you did the walk of shame past his room?"

"I think he's too busy banging Captain America," Sharon grumbles. Natasha laughs like bells. Sharon sighs. "Can I get up yet?" She squints suspiciously at Natasha, who just rolls her eyes, settling down on her elbows and running one finger down Sharon's sternum.

"That depends. Are you free on Wednesday?"

"Only if you're going to feed me," Sharon deadpans. Inside, her thoughts are running embarrassingly rampant, panic and triumph and utter confusion tangling together in their race to blow her head up.

"Oh, yeah," Natasha says, eyes slitted with a smile. "What time do you turn up to work?"

"Never, looking like this," Sharon sighs, staring down at the hickeys spattering her chest.

"We can make that work," Natasha says, and Sharon has no idea what she's talking about until Natasha has her mouth on Sharon's breast and her fingers digging into her thighs, and at that point, Sharon stops thinking altogether.

∆

She makes it out of Natasha's quarters in trackies and a Peggy Carter printed tee that Natasha obviously thinks is hilarious.

She makes it to Wednesday with a heavy amount of coffee and a strange look from the receptionist when she walks in late on Friday with a suspiciously purple neck.

She makes it to the address of the restaurant Natasha gives her, and from that moment on, she doesn't have to drag herself anywhere. From the moment she kisses Natasha for what has to be the hundredth time, everything gets a little easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment what you thought! X
> 
> Come help me battle TERFs on my [Tumblr](https://tumblr.com/%5Bcarloabay%5D)


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